


when, not if

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 16:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15343470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: "It doesn't have to be now," Manu says stubbornly. "It doesn't even have to be soon. But someday, we're going to play together again."[Football and transfers and loyalty, with a bit of magic thrown in.]





	when, not if

**Author's Note:**

> if football is a love story, benni höwedes is the protagonist. after all these years i'm glad to have finally written something for this tragic otp. huge thanks to mer and kate for reading various drafts along the way and being the best cheerleaders. <3 no hummelses were harmed in the making of this fic.

   
He's buying a loaf of bread when the recoil hits him.

One second he's handing exact change to the shop girl, and the next he's doubled over clutching the counter as his knees buckle. The coins clatter to the ground. The sound barely registers over the dull roar in his ears, dim as a girl's voice asking if he's all right, if he needs a doctor, if she should call someone.

Benni pushes himself to his feet. He jerks back when she reaches out to steady him. His nerves feel like they're on fire, and if she touched him right now, he's not sure what will happen.

"Please sit down," she says, the note of alarm in her voice rapidly morphing into concern. "I'll get you some water. I can call—"

"No, no, don't. I'm—" Except he's not fine. There's a gaping empty _something_ clawing through him, like a black hole just opened in the middle of his chest. "I need to—I'm sorry."

Still reeling, he half-staggers out of the bakery, bread and change forgotten. Later, he'll be amazed that he managed to find his way home. Later, he'll have time to wonder at many other things.

But right then, the only thought racing through his mind is: _God, Manu, what have you done?_

He presses a hand to his heart and it doesn't change a thing. Where before there was constant warmth, an always-already-there of knowing and having and held—now, there's nothing. The shock of it is almost worse than the pain.

Benni is twenty-three years old, and Manu has just decided to leave.

 

* * *

 

They'd debated telling the team in the lead up to the U-21 training camp. Manu pointed out that Sami at least deserved to know; he was captain. Benni thought that if Sami deserved to know then the rest of the team did, too.

The boys took it in stride, more or less. Mats raised an eyebrow at them. Mesut listened for maybe three seconds before mentally checking out and stealing glances at Marko's PSP. And Sami just looked thoughtful for a long moment, then nodded. 

"Thanks for telling us," Sami said. "I'm impressed you managed the binding spell. And, you know, it might be a good omen. The last time Germany had a bonded pair in defense, we won Euros in 1996."

Somebody snorted—probably Dennis—but otherwise nobody so much as batted an eye. They were all used to Sami being full of useless trivia. 

At dinner, Mats tossed a key at him. Benni caught it just before it landed in his soup. 

"For Manu," Mats said. "I'm switching rooms with him."

Benni felt a flush creep up his neck. "Um."

Mats laughed at him. "Coach's orders, dummy. You're supposed to tune in to each other or whatever. I don't know what it's about. I always fell asleep during spellcasting lessons at school."

"They're pretty boring," Benni acknowledged.

Mats quirked a smile. "So you two are planning to stay at Schalke forever, huh."

Benni quashed the instinctive answer. "I mean, you never know."

"No?” Mats quirked an eyebrow as well. "Hey, I'm not criticizing. Means less competition for me when Bayern need a center-back."

Manu came by with his tray and leveled Mats with a look. Mats just grinned at him, gave Benni a completely obnoxious wink, and then sauntered back to his table.

"What was that about?" Manu asked. 

Benni held up the key. Manu stared at him. He started smiling at the same time Benni did, and a second later, they were both trying not to laugh into their food.

But it was nice, sharing a room. Manu woke him up in the mornings, absently moved chairs and luggage out of the way so Benni wouldn't trip over them while making his way to the toilet half-asleep. It was quiet with just the two of them, and quiet was nice. Manu didn't need to talk when Benni could always sense him: a prickly feeling like mist or cold morning sun ghosting across his arms. 

And that was new, this constant itch like something that wasn't quite a touch. Maybe that's what coach meant by _attune_. Benni tried to get used to it, falling asleep to a phantom feeling that refused to leave him even in his dreams.

One night he heard Manu sit up in bed. "This is stupid." He was irritated. Benni sleepily wondered what at. Then Manu got up, marched across the room and said,

"Shove over."

He did so without thinking—and only then came fully awake, and started panicking. He wasn't used to sharing a bed with someone. Even if it was Manu. What if he couldn't sleep? What if he kicked in his sleep and accidentally hurt Manu, and at their opening match two days from now they had to send Florian on instead?

He felt more than heard Manu's huff of laughter. "Shut up and go to sleep."

"I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you thinking." Manu settled in, pulling the covers up to their shoulders. "It's just me. And this is better than wanting to crawl out of my own skin all the time when I know you're right there."

Manu muttered something that might have been _damn binding spell_. Benni wasn't sure, because Manu's arm had settled across his waist. He took a breath—felt Manu breathe with him. He closed his eyes and listened to his own heartbeat. It was slowing down, like Manu's breathing. The hand on his hip was warm and secure.

He slept so soundly he didn't even dream.

 

* * *

 

The news breaks a day later: _Manuel Neuer will not be extending his contract with Schalke._

(The night before, Benni had called and found he couldn't even form a question when Manu picked up. For long, agonizing seconds, the only sound was his own breathing. 

"Benni?" Manu finally said. "Listen, we should—where are you? We should talk—"

Benni hung up on him. There was nothing to talk about, when he already knew, and Manu knew, too.)

They lose both legs of the Champions League semifinal. They lose the last four matches of the season, the return match at Bayern as brutal as any they've played all year. The rumors gain steam, though Manu says nothing of where he's planning to go. His silence speaks volumes.

"What's going on with you two?" Christoph asks Manu after the 1-2 loss at Cologne.

They're the last stragglers left in the dressing room. For a second Benni considers staying hidden where he is and sneaking back out. They obviously didn't hear the door open, or his footsteps.

Manu says, "Nothing. We all played like shit. It wasn't because of—"

"You want to try that again, kid?" Christoph's voice is wry. "In four weeks, you've conceded as many goals as since—what, November? You telling me that's got nothing to do with the way you two haven't said a word to each other since you decided to jump ship?"

And even though there's nothing connecting them anymore, Benni can feel the way Manu goes tense and unhappy at Christoph's words.

He steps around the corner. "It's not his fault, Metze."

They both startle. Benni keeps his eyes on Christoph. 

"The binding spell failed." Christoph's eyebrows fly toward his hairline, before dropping right back down into a frown. Benni adds, "Unexpectedly. We don't know what happened. It's been hard learning to play without it." Like playing with a strained muscle, only worse. "But it is what it is. I've had time to get used to it now. So we'll be ready for the Pokal final, at least."

Christoph looks from him to Manu and back. "How does a five-year-old binding spell just _fail?_ "

It doesn't. Benni spreads his hands. "Like I said, I don't know. I'm no expert."

"I talked to some people—" Manu starts to say, and Benni cuts him off with, "We decided it wasn't worth trying to recast. So that's why. It's nobody's fault."

He tries for a smile, because Christoph is still watching him. Carefully, like he's listening for something.

"You're hurting," Christoph says. Benni nearly jumps out of his skin when Christoph suddenly steps forward and plants a hand on his chest. "If that's a side effect of spell failure—"

"It's not. But I'm handling it," Benni says a bit too quickly. How can Christoph _tell?_ He shoves that thought aside. "It's been a long season, you know?"

Christoph doesn't look entirely convinced. But Benni doesn't budge, and eventually, Christoph sighs and drops his hand. 

"Come talk to me if it gets any worse." Christoph waits pointedly for Benni's nod. "And make sure you really are ready for the final. We'll never hear the end of it if we lose to fucking _Duisburg._ "

"We'll be ready," Benni says again. "Don't worry about it."

Christoph gives him another one of those looks but says nothing more. He finally leaves. The door swings shut. 

Benni breathes out.

Manu says, "Is that true?"

"What?"

"That you're hurting, because of…"

"Spell recoil," Benni supplies for him. "And yes. Obviously. What did you think would happen?"

There's a long silence. Then, 

"You didn't have to cover for me."

"I did, actually." He doesn't turn to look at Manu. He can't, if he wants to keep his cool. "I had to because I'll still be here next year, and I need their respect. I can't have Metze telling everyone you went and _broke_ —"

"I didn't mean to. Benni, I swear I didn't." The words tumble from his mouth like they've been held back for days, weeks. Ever since he decided to leave. "But Rummenigge asked, as the condition for officially making their offer. I couldn't tell you. I couldn't drag you into that mess, so I—"

"So you asked them to break the binding instead?" He's trying, he's been trying to stay calm, because what's done is done, but it's been weeks and he's still struggling to breathe past the pain in his chest, and Manu—when he turns around, Manu is just staring at him. Like he doesn't know. "I cast that binding, Manu. I did, so when it broke the whole thing recoiled on _me_. It felt like somebody cracked three of my ribs—so I get if your hands were tied, and I get if Rummenigge is a cold-blooded son of a bitch—but you could have at least _warned me!_ "

"I did warn you," Manu says, after so long a pause that Benni thought maybe he did regret it after all. But then Manu says, "I warned you months ago. I asked you to go with me and you said—"

"Because Bayern don't want me!"

"Maybe not, but in a couple years!" Manu starts to reach for him, stops himself. Good; otherwise, Benni might have had to do it for him. Manu says, "In a couple years. Rummenigge told me they'll start talks with Schalke next year, or in January. It might not be soon, but it will happen. They'll want you eventually."

"And what about what I want?"

"It's your choice, obviously." Something about the way Manu says it suggests the idea is completely foreign to him. "I know you want to play for Schalke." His voice goes quiet. "But I also meant it, when I said I want to win everything with you."

And after everything, that's what suddenly makes his vision blur. 

This time, Manu doesn't stop himself from reaching, and Benni doesn't stop him either. 

"I meant it," Manu says into his ear as Benni's fingers twist in his t-shirt. He smells like soap and sweat and underneath it all, always, leather and grass: unshakeable strength. "And I'm sorry. I honestly didn't know the recoil would be that bad. You don't know how sorry I am. But I'll cast the binding next time, I swear, I'll never put you through that again—"

Benni pushes him away. It takes more effort than it should, not just because Manu's arms refuse to budge from his shoulders. 

"There's no next time," he manages through the rasp in his own voice. "I'm not leaving."

"It doesn't have to be now," Manu says stubbornly. "It doesn't even have to be soon. But someday, we're going to play together again. You're too good to stay here your whole career."

Benni stares at him. Manu looks back, unwavering.

"The team would kill you," Benni tells him. "If the ultras don't get there first."

Manu's grin is less than a twitch of his lips, but it's there, certain as anything. "You wouldn't rat me out," he says. 

And no, Benni thinks as Manu hugs him again, hand lingering on his back like he's trying to commit the shape of it to memory. No, he wouldn't. 

He wouldn't, he thinks when they win the Pokal three weeks later, and Benni doesn't see it coming—doesn't feel it on his own skin, the way he once would have—when someone slaps Manu in the face at the parade.

Because he would never, Benni thinks when the fans shout _Judas_ , though the crest on Manu's chest tonight is still Schalke blue and the trophy in his hands gleams gold under beer and lights.

And it's not even that he wouldn't, Benni knows. It's that he couldn't, even if he wanted to.

 

* * *

 

The day they first met, Manu was impressing a handful of teammates with his dribbling skills. The coach nodded for Benni to go ahead and join in, get to know the others. A few more boys wandered over to see what was going on, and casual showing off quickly turned into five-a-side by unspoken agreement.

Benni's first touch on the ball was a clean tackle that surprised Manu into nearly tripping over his own feet.

"I could have been an outfield player, you know," Manu told him after practice. He glanced at Benni. "I guess you're not bad, either."

Benni smiled into his water bottle. "I was a striker."

Manu stared at him. Benni looked right back. Then suddenly Manu broke into a grin, and a second later they were both laughing. At what, Benni wasn't sure, but it didn't seem to matter. Manu clapped him on the shoulder. A jolt like static—worn leather, grass—brushing across his senses. Benni's breath hitched; Manu blinked. His smile turned thoughtful.

"I think we're going to get along," he said, and Benni silently agreed: _Yes, I think we are._

 

* * *

 

It figures, really, that he would get his first senior national team call up two months after Manu has already decided to leave.

"So," Mats asks out loud while they're waiting for the flight to Azerbaijan. "When's the last time Germany had a formerly bonded pair in defense? Is it a bad omen, you reckon?"

Dennis snorts. "Do I look like Khedira to you?"

"You Swabians all look the same to me." Mats ignores Dennis' outraged splutter and snaps his fingers. "Hey, do you think Sami would actually know the answer if we called him up? I kinda miss his useless knowledge."

Toni shoots the pair of them an irritated look. Mesut puts on his headphones. After listening to Mats and Dennis go at it for a few more minutes, Benni digs out his iPod and does the same. 

Right before he hits play a low voice says, "How has nobody smothered Hummels in his sleep yet?"

"Because people actually like him."

Manu sits down and stretches his legs. He sighs. "Wonders never cease." He glances at the iPod in Benni's hands. "What are you listening to?"

"I don't know." Benni takes out his earbuds. "I don't usually listen to music before matches."

Manu looks at him for a long second. "You nervous?"

"No." Restless isn't the same thing. Neither is regret. "You know I don't get nervous."

Manu smiles faintly. "Good."

Benni doesn't get a chance to ask what he means by that, as Thomas and Holger haul Toni out of his seat and proclaim now they only need one more person for a game of Schafkopf. Manu volunteers when everybody else ducks for cover. Thomas gets that gleam in his eye.

"All right, newbie." Thomas rolls up the imaginary sleeves on his shirt. "We're starting your initiation early."

Benni watches their game for a bit, until Hansi pulls him aside for a quick chat with Löw about tomorrow's qualifier.

In Baku, he starts against Azerbaijan and feels stronger than he has in months. Teammates at his side, Manu at his back. Binding spell or no binding spell, they've still known each other a decade and more, and Benni has been waiting a long time for this. 

He assists Mesut for the opening goal, and after the final whistle blows for Azerbaijan 1, Germany 3, Manu walks down the length of the pitch with him, smiling the same smile as when he'd said, _Good._

"Euros," Manu says, so quietly it's almost lost in the whistles of the crowd. "And after that, world champions."

"You didn't even keep a clean sheet," Benni points out.

Manu frowns. "That was a lucky pass."

"The best keeper in the world," Benni notes, "beaten one-on-one by a player he's never even heard of."

"And where were you?" Manu shoots back. "Halfway up the pitch covering for Hummels?"

"Doing my bit for the team. I'm actually a striker, didn't you know?" He manages to keep a straight face long enough to add, "Just like Mats."

Manu's annoyance melts into laughter. Benni grins to himself. Because there's Manu's arm around him, scuffed grass beneath their feet. Manu taps his chest with one fisted hand, and for a second that lingering feeling evaporates—before coming back twice as strong.

He exhales sharply; Manu's hand tightens on his shoulder.

They fly back the same night, arrive in Düsseldorf with the first streaks of pink and grey in the sky. Manu takes a raincheck on a Schafkopf rematch with Thomas; he's going to see his family before heading to Munich. Benni offers him a ride.

The pavement is rumbling with trains when they pull up to the station.

In the car, Manu kisses him.

It's the same as Porto—three years ago—but it feels wrong the way watching your own reflected motions in a mirror world feels wrong because you know what the real thing is and it's almost that, only not quite.

When Manu draws back, Benni doesn't try to follow.

Eventually Manu opens the car door. "See you soon," he says, and Benni doesn't ask what or when he means.

 

* * *

 

 _No player at this club is indispensable,_ Magath had told a room full of reporters last year. _Every option is open, and no player is unsellable—except Manuel Neuer._

 

* * *

 

He doesn't even notice at first. 

The team is unsettled, this early in the season, which doesn't help. Half the time Benni wants to punch a hole in the wall, and the rest of the time he's exhausted from fighting the pain his chest that refuses to go away, even now. And that's not right. Recoil isn't supposed to last this long. It's been months.

Between the frustration and the worry, he doesn't notice the change until Raúl pulls him aside one day and says in English, 

"You must stop the projecting."

"What?" It takes his startled brain a second to catch up—Raúl, of all people, pulling him aside for a talk—and he repeats, in English this time, "Sorry. What do you mean?"

Raúl's eyes are dark and serious. Haunted by something. And how does he know that, Benni wonders. Raúl says, 

"You are tied. Neuer was not, so I thought—I did not know you still do this, in Germany. It is _bárbaro_. And it is hurting." Raúl looks over his shoulder at a heated argument starting between—Teemu and Moritz? Benni frowns; that makes no sense. Raúl looks back at him. "They are hurting because _you_ are hurting."

Later, it will occur to him to wonder how Raúl figured it out so fast. 

But that's later, after Benni runs over to help Ralf break up the fight and keep Huntelaar out of it besides. ("Didn't remember you idiots being this stupid," Ralf mutters, and Benni doesn't even have time to say he's glad Ralf came back.)

It's after he spends hours reviewing the past days and weeks, and concludes that Raúl is right: there's no reason for everyone to be this distraught. They're reacting the way Benni is reacting. Which makes no sense. 

Unless.

He concentrates, and there—bright, anxious nerves and what's next, what's next: Julian. And also—a roiling calm, strong currents beneath smooth water: Ralf. There's Atsuto, too, filled with new determination. Raúl—an old worry, a quiet hope—and Christoph, and all the rest.

The shock sinks into him. Benni presses a hand to his chest and knows, suddenly, that the ache isn't nothing. It has a source and it has a name, this weight pulling at him like gravity and twice as inexorable.

He's been bonded to Schalke.

It shouldn't have been possible. And yet it is, right there: the bond stings like a wound being reopened again and again. It pulls at him, demanding, and it never stops. After a while, Benni stops waiting for it to. After a while, he stops questioning how it even happened. 

In a way, it makes sense: a club has a soul, same as a person.

 _Benedikt is the kind of player who can restore faith in a club,_ the sporting director says. At training Rangnick tells him with quiet certainty that there was never a doubt, they never considered anyone else.

So Benni trains himself to stop, stop, _stop it already_ until control becomes marginally less of an impossible task. He projects calm. Confidence. He seeks out the pockets of trouble before they start—easier than before, when trouble now rings in his mind clear as a bell—and he holds the team together with willpower that he never knew he had. But he finds it, because he has to.

He's twenty-three years old, and he's Schalke's captain now.

 

* * *

 

Manu nearly walked into a door before Benni flung out a hand to keep it open. Manu didn't even notice, still frowning at nothing like he'd been doing all morning.

Benni steered him around a potted plant. "You feeling okay?" 

"It feels like someone's watching me," Manu said distractedly. "Or trying to get my attention, only not really. It's like I'm trying to respond to something that's not actually there."

"Did you get enough sleep last night?"

"Of course I did." Manu was offended by the idea he would be so irresponsible as to show up to practice sleep-deprived; he was a _professional_.

Benni laughed. "I'm teasing. I know you did. But this thing that's distracting you…" He brushed his hand over Manu's arm, and the back of his shirt where the jersey number would be. "Does it feel like it's right here and here?"

"Yes." Manu was surprised. "How did you know?"

"That's the team sense taking hold." Benni smiled at his nonplussed expression. "You're captain now, Manu. Didn't anybody warn you?"

"Sure, but—I'm barely sensitive enough to pick up anything from my own brother, much less other people." He sounded puzzled. "How am I sensing the whole team?"

"You can sense me," Benni pointed out. "It's like that. It's the same kind of thing as a binding."

Manu gave him a skeptical look. "A person can't be bonded to a club."

"No, but it's _like_ that. Coach told me when I was captaining the U-19 side." Benni felt Manu roll his eyes at the reminder that, yes, for the longest time, only one of them was considered future captain material. Benni elbowed him. "It means you were the right choice for captain. And it doesn't happen for everyone, you know. You should count your blessings."

"I'm counting them," Manu said. The feeling overlaying his words wasn't entirely to do with football.

Benni shot him a look. Manu just smiled back.

It was a losing battle, not that he put up much of a fight. Benni didn't reach for his hand or say anything out loud. He didn't need to. They walked the rest of the way in silence, Benni breathing in morning air and freshly cut grass, letting Manu's heartbeat settle like an anchor in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Whistles are still raining down around the stadium, boos drowning out the travelling Bayern fans' raucous cheers.

Benni claps Ralf on the shoulder. Ralf's weariness is matched only by his simmering anger—at the result, at his defenders, at himself for coming up short against a goalkeeper who goddamn _left_ and who's now walking away from the Veltins with a clean sheet and a 2-0 win.

Benni senses that and more, all in a split second. He ignores the twinge in his ribcage. Instead, he concentrates: it's not Ralf's fault. It's not Atsuto or Christian's fault, either, and Rangnick will be the hardest on himself. But it's over, and it's time to regroup.

Ralf breathes out—and shoots Benni a suspicious look. Benni takes his hand away. 

He gives Ralf a quick smile before going to look for Julian, who's shaken up and frustrated at his own inability to make a difference in the match. And after Julian, Atsuto—who just needs a hug, a quiet word. After that, there's Lewis, and Papa, and Teemu, who's directing a wary sidelong glance at—

"Good game," Manu says. 

He's swapped jerseys with Ralf, Benni notices. Apparently Ralf is over his anger. And he hadn't even noticed Manu. Just six months ago, the very idea would have been unthinkable.

Benni tries to hold out his hand for a handshake, but it's barely an attempt and in any case Manu ignores it. It's the stubborn part of him; the fearless part of him. And he might have seen it coming, but not so long ago he would have _known_. And yet. 

Leather and grass and determination, Manu's hand at the back of his neck, drawing him in like nothing's changed, like they're not wearing opposite colors and the stadium isn't still booing his name.

The armband on his sleeve feels heavy. Something thuds hard in his ribcage, once.

He hugs Manu back.

 

* * *

 

It really started after they came home from the U-21 championships. 

Manu had always hated conceding, even in practice, but now he was in danger of putting a dent in his own forwards' confidence. In the preseason friendlies Benni closed down the angles until the incoming runners were forced to take the lowest percentage shot—which Manu inevitably stopped. He read the game like it was an open book, like he was playing with a second pair of eyes. 

In a way, he was. Same way Manu was playing with a second pair of lungs, a heart that beat in time with his own. 

Magath officially took Benni's name off the reserve roster, and after the first home win of the year, the Nordkurve still singing their names, Manu hugged him so hard it knocked the breath right out of him.

_It starts now, for real._

Benni's wholehearted agreement didn't need to be spoken to be heard.

There were a lot of things they didn't need to say out loud anymore. Things like, Manu grabbing an extra water bottle for him after practice, and Benni waiting in the lot on the days Manu needed a ride home because he was too tired to drive. 

One morning, Benni bit into a piece of melon and tasted nutella and coffee instead. While he frowned at his plate, his phone beeped.

The text from Manu read, _are u eating fruit for breakfast?_

Benni wrote back. _I don't think YOU'RE supposed to be having chocolate for breakfast._

His shoulders started shaking before Manu's next text even arrived, because Manu had just read his reply and was laughing now. Benni knew, the way he knew what Manu was eating and where he was, always, the same way he knew that the dream from last night hadn't been entirely his.

Maybe it should have scared him, that the binding was growing stronger rather than settling or fading, the way most spells did. But then, he'd never doubted that it would hold. Manu hadn't either. It was them, and it was always going to be like this. Benni couldn't imagine a world in which it could ever be otherwise.

 

* * *

 

Atsuto presses a keychain into his hands. "For good luck," he says. "With injury."

His pronunciation of _luck_ is iffy at best. But Benni would have known what he meant even if he'd said nothing, Atsuto's feelings ringing clear through the bond that's become like a second pair of eyes and ears.

The keychain is from the gift shop. It's little more than a plastic football paired with a miniature Erwin in Schalke blue. It's something Benni has given his own nephews and cousins, the years he forgot to do his Christmas shopping on time.

"Thank you," he tells Atsuto. His face still hurts when he talks, but Atsuto smiles right back. "I'll treasure this." 

Benni finds the keychain in his bag a week later. He'd forgotten to take it out. He goes to put it in his locker instead. Somewhere Atsuto will see it, maybe.

He hears the door swing open. 

"How's your face?" Ralf asks. 

"Nothing to look at, but fine otherwise." He opens his locker and hangs the keychain from a hook. When he turns around, Ralf is still looking at him. "What? You got a problem with my face?"

Ralf snorts. "Just wondering how your gorgeous mug keeps getting into these scrapes. Cheekbone fracture's a new one, even for you."

"I didn't see Marco," Benni says, because that's the truth. He genuinely hadn't noticed. Even the bond can't account for everything, and that day in Stuttgart it had been worse than usual, so he'd been doing his best to ignore it—and then Marco rushed in for the ball before Benni had time to react, and the next thing he knew there was pain blooming across his face and rattling hard through his skull.

He'd seen Marco go pale, as if he were the one that got hit—and Benni instinctively slammed on the mental brakes. _Not your fault, not your fault,_ he thought as hard as he could at Marco before they took him off the pitch and straight to the hospital.

Marco is still horrified by what happened, though Benni spent most of the weeks after his surgery projecting reassurance and forgiveness. Marco's ability to hold onto guilt is slightly worrying.

"It happens," he tells Ralf, who doesn't look convinced. 

"Well, try to make it happen less, yeah?" Ralf gets up as the door swings open again, the rest of the team arriving. "I swear, Benni, you've got the worst shit luck in the world."

Atsuto gives Ralf a curious look. Benni doesn't bother trying to translate that one. He goes back to his locker and pulls out his boots. 

"Oh," he hears Atsuto say. "You put it…"

Benni swings the locker door wide so Atsuto can see the keychain hanging from its hook. "Yeah. I need the luck, according to Ralf."

Atsuto's happiness is a sunny feeling. He taps Benni's arm and beckons him over to look at his locker. Inside, nestled amongst charging cords and bundled sweaters, is a little Erwin plushie. It looks a bit scuffed, like something that's been thrown into luggage and pockets, taken to cities halfway across the country and back. Which it may well have been.

Manu had given that to Atsuto, nearly two years ago, because he couldn't think of a better way to say _welcome to the club, you're one of us now_ that didn't involve Google translate and a lot of hand gestures that may or may not have gone over well.

"He is luck for me," Atsuto says, and the pang that lances through Benni's chest has nothing to do with Atsuto or Erwin.

The fracture in his cheek makes it even harder to smile. "That's good," Benni says. "You keep him right there."

 

* * *

 

He keeps that keychain in his locker, though he doesn't believe in luck. It's hard to believe in something that doesn't exist.

Three weeks later, he's out of commission again. Muscular tear, the doctors tell him. Three weeks after that, it's the flu. And two weeks after that, he strains his calf. The scar on his cheek still complains when he wakes up. He goes to sleep at night exhausted and hurting in a hundred nameless ways, and half the time it's all drowned out anyway by the sensation of bleeding out from a wound that nobody can see.

The club doctor prescribes rest. His brother talks their mother into taking him to a specialist in Bonn. 

"This isn't normal," his brother says in the car. "And you keeping it from us isn't making it better. If Ralf hadn't told me—"

" _Ralf_ called you?"

"There's nothing to be gained from pushing yourself past certain limits." His mother glances at him in the rear view mirror, flicks her eyes back to the road. "You know better, Benedikt. This is for your own good."

Benni protests anyway, but only because he knows the doctors won't find anything he doesn't already know.

They find even less than that.

When the results come back, the doctors are mystified, and so are his parents. _He was never a sickly child,_ they tell the doctors. _There's no family history of anything. He's always been strong. It doesn't make sense._

Benni listens to them, runs restless fingers through his hair and feels entire strands come away in his hands. He's too young to be losing his hair.

The doctors can't explain that, either.

 _His body isn't healing itself at the rate it should be,_ the doctors conclude. _There's no reason for it maybe, but that's what it is. He'll just have to be careful from now on. Approach things as he would if he were ten, twenty years older._

It makes no sense, his brother says again on the car ride back. Except it does, and Benni doesn't tell him or his mother—who just asks, point blank, if _he_ feels fit to continue as he's been doing. When Benni tells her yes, she doesn't try to talk him out of it.

Not that she could have, even if she'd tried. The team needs him. The club needs him. They hurt when he's hurting, and he'll hurt until they no longer do. And if it turns out he doesn't have enough for both himself and Schalke—he'll either figure out a way to make this work or burn himself out trying. There's no third option.

 

* * *

 

There is a third option, as Manu shouts at him over the phone when he hears that Benni has ruptured a ligament for the second time in as many years. And it's funny, almost, that after everything it's Manu—six hundred kilometers away in Munich—who realizes what's going on before anyone in Gelsenkirchen does.

"Leave," Manu says. Demands, but it's not his to demand anymore. "Just leave, Benni. Or absolve the bond. You don't need to be bonded to be captain."

"You know I can't safely absolve something I didn't cast."

"Well, I didn't cast it either!" Manu sounds scared. And that's new. "You know I didn't. You know I couldn't even if I wanted to, I've never been able to cast anything—"

"I know." His knee hurts, and so does his head. Benni keeps his voice steady. "I know you didn't mean to do it." Not that intention changes what's already been done. 

He hears Manu's exhale as static on the phone. "Then you have to leave." Like it's a foregone conclusion. "Talk to your agent. Van Buyten's not getting any younger, so Rummenigge is definitely going to be in the market for a center-back—"

"Manu, stop—"

"I know we said however long it takes, but if it's now then it's now—"

"I never said that," Benni snaps. "I never said anything of the sort. You were the one who decided that you'd rather play for Bayern."

"Because it was the logical next step," Manu says slowly. Like he doesn't understand. "I couldn't stay at Schalke forever, just like you can't. Especially you."

"I can and I will. You—no, you listen to me for once! You know I never wanted to leave to begin with. But I said I'd consider it, because you asked, but then you went and left without even waiting to hear what I decided—"

"I could tell you didn't want to leave just yet!"

"And I still don't! Do you get that? Not everybody's like you."

"You're not just anybody," is Manu's reply, and Benni has to physically stop himself from throwing his phone against the wall, because what right does he have to go and say things like, "It's not about Bayern. It's never been about Bayern. We could have gone anywhere, but they were the only ones asking, and after I talked to Lahm and Rummenigge—"

"Fuck Rummenigge." His chest hurts. Manu's uncomprehending silence hurts more. "Fuck Lahm, fuck Bayern, and fuck you, Manu. You don't get to decide for me."

"I wasn't trying to! Benni, what the hell. All I wanted—"

"I don't care." And what does it matter if it's not completely true; it's not like Manu can call him out on it now. "I don't care what you want. This is my life and my reputation on the line."

The pause is long and loud.

"You'd pick your reputation over your career?"

"You picked your career over me," Benni says, and hangs up on him.

 

* * *

 

His first full season out of the reserves, they drew Porto in the Champions League. 

At the return leg in Portugal, he was finally subbed on in the 114th minute: 114 minutes of waiting, waiting, heart pounding for the both of them as he watched Manu deny Porto chance after chance after chance to keep them tied on aggregate. He was laser focused even now, deep into extra time. His determination sounded louder than the whistles and shouts ringing down from the stands: 

_We're going to win this._

The whistle blew for the end of extra time. 

He watched Rafinha net the first penalty: 0-1. His whole side ached from the impact as Manu dove left; Lucho's shot went the other way. 1-1. He held his breath while Rakitic stepped up, and converted for 1-2.

Manu breathed out. He caught Alves leaning left—Benni felt the certainty of it like sudden calm—and then Manu was punching the ball away. 

_One down,_ Manu thought over the stadium's roar. _Three to go._

It never got that far. Altintop faked out Helton for 1-3. Lisandro stepped up; Manu somehow got a hand on the ball, and then Jones was running up to the spot. The ball flew high and fast, hit the crossbar, and went in.

They were through to the quarterfinals.

The entire bench and half the coaching staff were shouting, maybe crying, swarming the pitch to thump Jones' back and bless Ivan's nerves of steel. Benni nearly stumbled, the insistent tug at his heart making his feet move faster, faster until he was running past teammates and people he barely noticed because then Manu's arms were around him.

He shook with adrenaline. "I did it, Benni." His voice nearly cracked. "That really happened."

Benni hugged him harder, hard enough to match the pressure expanding in his ribcage: joy was too small a word.

That night, Manu kissed him for the first time. He was more nervous than he'd been facing down Porto's penalty takers, and Benni knew it was going to happen before Manu even opened his mouth to ask—thought better of it—thought, _fuck it_ —and ended up saying nothing at all.

Nothing needed to be said. Benni kissed him back, inevitable as the heart beating strong beneath his hand. He was twenty years old and Manu was twenty-one, and he'd never been surer of anything in his life.

 

* * *

 

After that, Manu stops talking about Bayern. Manu stops talking to him, period. He doesn't call, and that's fine. In fact, it's better that he doesn't. 

Transfer rumors churn, and transfer rumors die out. 

The season ends, and the national team calls.

A long time ago, Manu said that Euro 2012 was a very reasonable goal. But then Manu had already gone to South Africa in 2010, started every match and came home with a third place medal and still been far from satisfied.

 _Next time,_ Manu said. _Next time, in Brazil._

That's the thing about Manu: he's always been looking ahead. Benni does, too, but he also looks around. And around him are veterans, heroes that he himself looks up to. He doesn't think he could ever begrudge Per Mertesacker a place in the starting eleven.

Still, he's here: with the national team, at a major tournament finals.

At the base camp in Gdansk, he shares a room with Holger—which functionally means he's sharing with Holger and Thomas, who drops by at all hours, often with Toni or Manu in tow. 

Benni takes to spending his free time in the kitchen, where he usually finds Per. 

Per will offer to make tea, and Benni always says yes.

"How's Jule doing?" Per asks one day. 

From upstairs comes a _thump_ , followed by what sounds like Holger defending Thomas from accusations that he's a no-good cheater who cheats at cards.

Benni curls his hands around his mug of tea. "Disappointed, obviously." He can still feel the rasp of Julian's frustration, even at this distance from Gelsenkirchen. "But it's motivating him. He's determined to make the cut the next time around."

"He's a tough kid," Per says fondly. "Never answers my texts, though. Gotta work on that."

Benni laughs. "Never answers mine, either. You'd think someone his age would know how to use a phone."

"When's the last time you talked to him?"

"In Basel." When they'd lost 5-3 to Switzerland. "You remember. You were there."

"Yes." Per tilts his head. "That was before Jogi announced the final squad, though. How do you know what Jule's thinking if you haven't talked since May?"

The sound of Thomas' laughter cuts clean through several layers of wall and floor. 

Benni says, "I guess I've seen him around."

Per chuckles at the look on his face. "I'm not accusing you of anything, Benni. I was just curious. Metze mentioned, you know, when you became captain. He said you had unusually strong team sense. I didn't know it was _that_ strong."

"Yes, well." Benni lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. So Per doesn't actually know, and Christoph hadn't guessed, either. He absently rubs his chest; it doesn't do anything about the icy feeling between his ribs, but the motion calms him.

Per says, "Why do you keep doing that?"

Benni drops his hand. "Nothing. Do what?"

"That." Per mimics him, one hand pressed to his chest. "You only do it when the trainers aren't looking, though. You're not hiding another injury, are you?"

"Of course not." He frowns. "What do you mean 'another'?"

"Easy," Per says gently. He pauses as another argument breaks out upstairs. When the initial shouting phase has passed, Per continues, "It's just something Metze said."

"You talk about everyone behind their backs like this?"

"Just the ones we like." Per gives him a smile. "I'm kidding. Look, we all talk about shit. Most of it really is shit. But then I remember that Metze mentioned he sensed you hurting on and off all year. Never seemed to correspond with you actually getting treated for anything."

"I've had some injuries." Which is the truth. "It's been a string of bad luck, really, nothing more." Which isn't completely true. But Per doesn't need to know.

When he looks back up, Per is watching him. No, Per is concentrating. On him. Why, Benni can't even begin to guess. He opens his mouth to ask—

A burst of happiness nearly knocks him flat.

When his vision clears, he realizes the gasp he'd heard had been his own. His chest hurts like fire just lanced straight through, and Per is holding his arm, steadying him. Giving him a thoughtful look, surprise and vindication in equal measure.

And how does he know that, Benni has a second to wonder, but then Per is saying, 

"Sorry. Really. I didn't think you'd react that badly. I've only ever tried that trick on Philipp, and he hit me back just as hard, let me tell you. Are you all right?"

Benni tries to nod and shake his head at the same time. He ends up dropping his chin instead. His heart's pounding like he's just played a full ninety minutes. "I'm fine," he manages. "What do you mean Lahm hit—" No, that's not the right question. "Was that you? What I felt just now?"

"That was me projecting. And you felt it like _that_ —" Per smacks his fist against the opposite palm, "—because you really are soul-sensitive. Honestly, I can't believe you went this long without anybody noticing. Didn't you even talk to the team doctors?"

Benni shook his head. "I didn't think it was worth mentioning."

"Maybe not. But you want to know what I think?"

"That I should mention it anyway?"

Per quirks a smile at his dry tone. "Yes. But also, I think your thing isn't physical pain. I think it's team sense, but it's too strong and it's started throwing off weird symptoms. So it hurts, here." Per puts a hand to his chest again. "But it's not actually here, you know?"

Benni somehow manages to unstick his tongue. "I've never heard of something like that happening."

"Me neither." Per shrugs. "But it makes sense, doesn't it?"

"I guess," Benni admits after a silent struggle. "Well, it is what it is. It's honestly not that bad. I appreciate the thought—"

"Oh, I know you could deal with it. Other people have, after all." Per scoffs at the look Benni shoots him. "You didn't think you were the only one, did you? I'll grant you, you're unusual. The last person I met who's this sensitive was probably—well, Metze. Must be something in the water at Haltern, huh."

Benni takes a second to process that. "Must be," he says.

The game upstairs has gone silent. If he listens carefully, he can hear the sound of footsteps. Maybe by the time he goes back, Thomas and the rest will have left.

The lancing feeling in his chest fades to a dull ache, then becomes just another piece of background noise that's he's learning to get used to. Benni is twenty-four years old, and everything Per is telling him are things he's always already known. But still—it feels nice to know that someone knows, even if they don't know the whole story.

Per says, "I can teach you how to block it out."

Benni stares at him. "What?"

"The team sense." Per shrugs. "I looked into it for Metze. Though, actually, Philipp's the one who figured it out. He's also pretty sensitive. Not as much as you, but the same technique should work." Per gives him a faint smile. "I still think you should talk to Dr. Müller. But in the meantime, want me to show you?"

"Yes." Benni pushes his tea aside so fast some of it sloshes over the rim. " _Please._ "

 

* * *

 

He goes home from the European Championships without having played a single match. 

It takes him the rest of the summer to figure out how to tweak what Per showed him to work on the bond as well as team sense. It's nearly winter before he manages to get any sort of control on it, but he manages it in the end.

The difference is like standing up straight after years of walking beneath an unspeakable weight. It doesn't block out everything—how could it—but the difference means he can take a breath, and it doesn't hurt. He braces his hands on his knees to keep them from hitting the ground. The relief is as overwhelming as the pain.

The _zip-scratch_ sound of velcro; Ralf adjusting his gloves. He gives Benni a funny look as he walks by. "What, did you hurt yourself again?"

"No." Benni has to work to keep from breaking into a grin, or maybe hysterical laughter. "No, I'm fine."

He takes another breath and wonders if this—this is how the rest of his life actually, finally starts.

In October they beat Dortmund for the first time in two and a half years. In March, they beat Dortmund again. After the team meeting, after the media rounds, Benni turns a corner and nearly gets bowled over by Julian, who's still giddy from his first-ever Revierderby goal and chanting _Benni, Benni, I did it, Benni,_ while trying to climb up for a piggyback ride.

"You'll break his neck," says another voice. Ralf yanks Julian off him. "Or your own."

That's the one thing he almost misses about the bond: knowing where everyone is at all times.

Julian laughs and attempts to attach himself to Ralf instead. Ralf physically turns him around, points him in the direction of the dressing room—"Go get changed, brat,"—and gives Julian a shove. It's a gentle shove. Ralf always did act tougher than he actually is. 

"Shut up," Ralf says. 

Benni startles. "What? I didn't—"

"You're laughing at me for coddling Jule, to which I say: pot, kettle." He watches Julian disappear around the corner, nods to Atsuto who wanders by and gives Benni a smile and a thumbs up. Ralf says to Benni, "You seem happy."

"We just kicked Dortmund's ass. Of course I'm happy."

"You're happier in general." Ralf spends a minute struggling with his words, before eventually deciding on, "Stay that way. Pisses me off watching you mope around pretending like you're not."

And before Benni can figure out what he's even supposed to say to that, Ralf walks away. It's possible Ralf also doesn't know.

 _I know it hasn't been easy for you,_ the directors tell him a week later. _But there is no doubt you are the captain we needed. And still do. You know what it would mean to the team, to the fans, to everyone if you stay._

Benni signs the contract extension. He's twenty-five years old, and he's not going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

"If I leave," Manu started to say, then stopped. He concentrated on the football instead, juggling it from one foot to the other. 

It was stuff like this that used to catch the attention of people who came to watch practice, back when Manu had yet to get a start in the first team. The fans would ask who the talented new signing was, and they were never terribly impressed to learn that Manu wasn't a new signing but their third-choice keeper, newly promoted from the reserves.

But that was years ago; the fans were more than impressed now. Theirs was the best goalkeeper in the world, after all. 

Manu said, "You'd play for another club, right? If they asked."

Benni pulled on a pair of mittens. "You mean like Bayern?" 

Manu shrugged. His breath misted white in the January cold.

"Probably." He knew he would have to leave Schalke one day; football didn't last forever. "But I didn't go to South Africa with you guys, and it's not like Bayern really need another inexperienced center-back."

"You're not inexperienced," Manu said irritably. "You just need another season or two as a regular starter."

Benni let his patient exasperation filter through on its own. It made Manu even more irritated. Then irritation became reluctant guilt, and guilt became a burst of ice like being pushed into a frozen pond. Benni nearly panicked before remembering he was breathing air, not water.

When he looked up, Manu had kicked the football away.

"Why are you mad at me?" he asked out loud, because he didn't want to touch that feeling again. Manu's anger always flashed cold; it burned all the worse for that.

"I'm not." Manu was lying, but he was trying to stop. Benni could feel him struggle with it, same as he could feel the quickfire pulse of his own heart. "I'm not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you? Unless you actually don't think you could play for a top club someday. You're twice as good as Badstuber, so if he can—"

"Schalke is a top club," Benni pointed out.

"Schalke is the best club in the world." No trace of hesitation or doubt. "But that doesn't mean we can stay here forever."

The cold settled like a lump in his gut. 

"I'd have to absolve the binding," Benni said eventually. _Don't make me do that,_ he thought, useless though it was. _Don't make me choose between impossible things._

Manu's sigh was visible in the morning air. 

"Yeah," he said, and left it at that.

 

* * *

 

"Look at us," Mats drawls. "A couple of sworn enemies chilling together like regular buddy-buddy pals. And they said world peace was a pipe dream."

Even with his back turned, Benni can tell that Toni is rolling his eyes. "Yeah, go collect your Nobel prize."

Benni smiles to himself as he plugs another cable from the Xbox to the TV. He presses the power button—and the screen stays stubbornly dark. Reflected in the TV screen, Mats puts a dramatic hand over his heart. 

"I'd like to thank our gracious hosts, Brazil, and of course, my family and friends—"

"And my beautiful childhood club, who made me the man I am today! Yes, good speech, very moving. Thank you." Thomas hops over the back of the couch and nearly squashes Toni, who just about scrambles out of the way. Thomas grins at Mats. "Speaking of. When are you coming back home, huh?"

"Oh, I don't know." Mats flicks a lazy glance in Benni's direction. "I like it in Dortmund. I get to do all this propaganda about how the Schalke captain and I secretly love each other."

Thomas bursts out laughing. Toni mutters something about getting help and stalks away.

"I'm hurt, Mats," Benni says without looking up from the malfunctioning gaming system. "I thought you actually meant all those things you said."

"Our very own star-crossed lovers," Thomas sing-songs. He slides across the couch and has Mats in a headlock before Mats can splutter out a protest. "A modern Romeo and Juliet. Hey, try not to get killed by his overprotective friends, huh?"

Mats shoves Thomas off. "That's definitely not how that play ends."

"They both die, don't they?" Thomas loses interest in the details quickly enough. He walks over and crouches down next to Benni instead. "So what's with the Xbox? Is it totally kaput?"

"It might be broken," Benni admits. He's been trying to fix it for nearly half an hour.

"What's broken?" says a confused voice. 

Manu is standing in the doorway. Benni hadn't even heard Toni open the patio door when he left, but he must have, because now he's outside in the yard. Toni squints at something in the grass—he kicks a football into the air, starts juggling it.

Mats puts up both hands, "Whatever it was, it wasn't my fault."

"Xbox is dead," Thomas declares, while Manu's still giving Mats an unimpressed look. "We're playing Schafkopf instead. I know I saw cards—hey, Toni! Get in here!"

"I'm busy!" comes Toni's voice. 

Thomas rolls his eyes. He brushes past Manu to dart into the yard—"Be right back. Somebody get the cards, yeah?"—and Benni takes it as his cue to leave.

Mats raises an eyebrow at him. "Where you going?"

"Jule wanted to talk to me about something." It's not a complete lie; Julian usually does want to talk to him about something or other. "I think the cards are in the kitchen."

"I'll get them. But you play." Mats unfolds himself from the couch. "Thomas cleaned me out last night, so it's somebody else's turn to step up. You know how to play, right?"

"Thomas is gonna hustle all of us if we're not careful," Manu says before Benni can admit that yes, he knows the rules, but that's about all he knows. 

Manu goes to the kitchen and comes back with the cards. He pulls the coffee table into the circle of couches. Then he looks at Benni, and shrugs. 

"Play for a bit," he says, voice just a tad quieter than before. "I'll tag in for you or something. Keep it fair."

"How's that fair on me?" Mats wonders aloud.

Manu is still looking at him. Something tugs in his chest, a phantom feeling that's nothing like the real thing, because he knows. Still, he finds himself sitting down. He hears Manu breathe out. Starts shuffling the deck.

"Well, fine," Mats says. "But then I get to call a back up, too."

"You're practically Bayern born and raised," Benni reminds him. "You're telling me you can't even play Schafkopf without somebody holding your hand?"

"Real reason why they kicked him out," Toni says, and Manu snorts when Mats jumps. Toni's still got the football under his arm, but at Thomas' prodding, he finally drops it. "All right, all right. I'm in. But this is the last game. I swear, you'd think this was summer camp instead of the goddamn World Cup finals."

"Yeah." Thomas grins and takes the deck from Manu. "Isn't it great?"

It's something, Benni thinks as the cards are dealt and he ends up partnering Toni. Mats and Thomas bicker over lost tricks from previous games and evidence for or against just how bad Mats is at game strategy. Manu sits with Benni and points at cards he should play next. Thomas kicks Toni when he tries to protest that that's cheating.

Even with Manu blatantly helping, Benni only manages to win one out of three games. By then it's starting to get dark. He gives his spot at the table to Manu, who looks for a second like he wants to say something—but in the end just nods.

"Tell Mario to get over here if you see him," Mats says, and Benni catches Toni rolling his eyes again before he leaves. 

He takes the long way around back to his own cabin. Julian will definitely be wondering where he's gone, but Julian can wait. A salt breeze kicks up dust around his sandals, Santa Cruz Cabralia whispering with sea and sand as the sun goes down. Benni breathes it in. 

He catches himself starting to lift his hand, drops it again. His chest hasn't hurt in over a year. He's twenty-six years old, and he's at a World Cup finals with the national team. It's all going exactly as it should.

In his pocket, his phone beeps. 

_you should talk to dr müll if it's bothering you again,_ reads the text from Manu.

He should be annoyed, probably, that that's the first thing Manu writes after nearly two years of radio silence. Maybe it's the time of day. Or maybe they've both finally grown up. Benni writes back, 

_I'm feeling fine, don't worry about it._

He can see the yellow lights of the cabin before his phone beeps again. 

_sorry for making you play schafkopf. i know you don't like card games._

This has to be by far the dumbest conversation they've ever had. And somehow, he doesn't mind that, either.

 _It was fun,_ he writes. _Though you're obviously not as good as you think you are._

 _thomas cheats,_ comes the immediate response. _haven't figured out HOW but he definitely cheats. nobody is that good all the time._

 _Must be a Bayern thing. Mats has a long way to go before they'll take him back huh?_

He stands outside the door and waits. When the next text comes, he reads it—once—then pockets his phone. Manu probably isn't expecting a response. Because all he wrote was: 

_never in a million years_

 

* * *

 

He assists Miro for the record-tying goal. He plays every minute of the World Cup, and when it's all over and the final whistle has blown, Manu finds him amidst the shouting and the celebration like there aren't a hundred other people trying to shake his hand to congratulate the best goalkeeper of the tournament, the best in the world. 

Manu finds Benni and hugs him without saying a word. Benni hugs him back. Manu might be crying; it's hard to tell when he's not entirely steady on his own feet. 

They're world champions. 

And never mind what Per taught him. Never mind that he's used to the quiet of his own mind now, separate from Schalke and separate from Manu. Never mind logic and impossibilities, because right then—just then—everything is crystal clear again. Same as when this all began: Manu's arms around him, Manu's heartbeat in his ear, Manu breathing out when Benni breathes in.

They walk the victory lap together. Benni touches the medal resting heavy against his chest. Manu catches his eye; Benni smiles back. 

_We did it,_ Benni says, and Manu replies, _Like we said we would._

After the photos, after the dignitaries, after the fourth bottle of champagne—because Per and Basti dumped the first one on Philipp, Poldi got Löw with the second, and Thomas chased Kevin and Mats halfway down the tunnel and back with the third—but after the endless cheers, after the hundreds of thanks and back-thumping hugs from teammates and trainers and friends—after everything, Benni looks to his side and finds Manu still there.

It's getting ridiculously late, or laughably early. Half the team have gone back with their wives or girlfriends, and the other half have gone elsewhere and taken the party with them. Benni doubts any of them are sleeping that night.

No one notices when Manu follows him back to his room. 

His hand is warm where it's calloused, sticky where he held them up to avoid getting sprayed with champagne.

Manu says, "Benni." Fingers tightening around his. "Benni, listen, I really think it's this year. We've done it. And I've been talking to Rummenigge. If they make an offer later this summer—"

Benni cuts him off with a kiss. The door closes behind them. 

He doesn't give Manu another chance to bring up Bayern.

That night they fall asleep together like they're twenty and twenty-one again. Like nothing has changed, or maybe everything. Manu's arm around his waist and Manu's head resting on his shoulder. His palm against Manu's chest where the medal was.

He closes his eyes to the hum of two heartbeats, and it almost doesn't matter that he never finds them quite in sync, no matter how long he waits.

 

* * *

 

He jolts awake in the middle of the night, chest seizing under a blow like a heart attack—like he's been shot—but when he grabs at his shirt, his hand comes away bloodless.

He breathes. He's not wounded; he's not dying. The pain is there, but not _there_.

He shuts his eyes and waits for it to pass. Emotional stress, he reminds himself. He's long since realized what it does to his sensitivity. The physical stress and lack of sleep probably didn't help.

He turns his head to check if he's woken Manu. It's dark and his vision is swimming. He reaches instead and his fingers curl over thin air, sheets still warm from a person's body heat. 

Manu is gone.

 

* * *

 

"I'm going to say no." The assistant coach's voice was gentle but firm. "I know it sounds like a good idea, and there are definitely benefits, but there are also risks."

"I know that." Manu had a stubborn look on his face. "But Benni's sure we're compatible, and I'm sure, too. So the chances of the binding backfiring are—"

"Still not zero." Coach was looking at Benni now. "I know you're both tough, but that kind of recoil is like a broken bone and twice as hard to fix. Especially when you're so young."

"I'll be eighteen next March," Manu muttered under his breath.

And Benni would be sixteen by then. Old enough to make his own decisions, he thought, but also old enough to know there were plenty of good reasons why binding had fallen out of fashion. Nobody stayed at the same club their entire life anymore, much less two people. And absolving a bond was just as tricky as casting one in the first place.

Benni said, "I know the spell is hard to get right. But what if we had a teacher do it?"

Coach's face turned deathly serious. "Never let a third person cast anything of the sort on you. It's dangerous and it's irresponsible. It's even more dangerous than attempting a binding before you're ready. Do you understand me?"

Benni nodded, startled by the vehemence in her voice. Manu scuffed the grass beneath his shoe.

Coach looked them over, still with that serious expression. Then she ruffled Manu's hair—earning a squawk as she messed up his carefully combed hairstyle. Benni bit his lip to hide a laugh. 

She smiled at the both of them. "There's no need to rush these things," coach said. "Just work hard, and you'll get there. You don't need any advantage that you haven't already got."

 

* * *

 

The offers start coming in almost before he's returned from Brazil. The rumor mill is working overtime this summer. At one point his brother calls to ask what the hell is going on, why are people asking him if he's moving to London?

A few weeks later, Manu calls him at home. 

Benni sees the caller ID and considers not answering. Then the phone rings again, and his hand picks up the phone its own. 

"Hey."

"Hi." Manu sounds like he's smiling. Nervous. Benni wishes he knew for sure. "Have you heard from Bayern?"

Because of course that's why he's calling.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss," Benni says, which is the truth. 

Manu scoffs at that. Which is also the truth. "Come on, I know they did. I just want to know if you hung up on them or if you actually heard them out."

Benni tells him yes: yes, his agent got the call and yes, he had a pleasant conversation with Rummenigge. He's heard Bayern's offer. 

He's also heard offers from Arsenal, Chelsea, Milan. He even fielded a phone call, from Barcelona, that was either a misdial or the worst preliminary query he's ever had to politely turn down.

The line is silent for nearly a full minute before Manu says, 

"You're staying at Schalke, aren't you."

It's not a question. 

Benni answers anyway. "Yes, I am."

"I know it's your choice," Manu says, same as he's done before. But this time he continues, "Just like leaving was my choice. I know you're still mad at me on some level, and I get that. I get that, Benni. But at this point, I think you also know that if you stay there forever—and you end up regretting it—then that's your own fault."

Benni doesn't argue. He's tired of wondering whose fault it really is, when fault was never the problem.

"Can we not fight about this," he asks instead. "I've told you before. I've told you practically every time you asked."

"I know." Manu doesn't sound happy about that, either. "I know, I just..."

"What?"

"I don't know what you want me to do."

Because that's the real problem, isn't it. He never asked anything of Manu, because the one thing he wanted to ask was the one thing he knew Manu would never do. Just like the one thing Manu wants is the one thing Benni will never be able to say yes to.

And maybe that's the real problem: because despite all that, after all this time, Manu keeps asking anyway.

 

* * *

 

The years immediately following World Cups are always bad. That year, Schalke crash out of the Pokal in the first round. They lose the league opener to Hannover, and Matchday 2 is the first home fixture of the season—against Bayern.

Ten minutes into the match, a defensive error leads to a scramble in the box. Benni watches Ralf come off his line, collide with the runner. The ball drops to Lewandowski's feet before hitting the back of the net.

They're all reacting too slow. And there's nothing Benni can do about that, short of opening himself to the bond and forcing some positional awareness into everybody's heads. 

So instead he runs. When the free kick comes in, he loses his defender and cuts inside. By the time Alonso catches up, they're on top of the goal. Alonso lunges for the clearance—Benni jumps to avoid him—the ball smacks into Benni's chest, against his side and his arm—and goes in. 

The Nordkurve erupts. Manu makes a beeline for the referee. 

He's still there, when Benni turns back from celebrating with the home fans and the team. Manu is obviously losing the furious argument he's having with the referee and his assistants, but he argues anyway.

And isn't that just like him, Benni thinks. 

The match ends with Schalke 1, Bayern 1. It's not a win, but it's a point earned. The first in seven matches, and his first goal against Bayern. It feels like an omen. Ralf thumps his back in the tunnel afterwards. Julian grins and holds up both hands for a high five.

"Return match in Munich," Julian says. "We'll really stick it to them then."

Benni musses up his hair and tells him to stop listening to Ralf. 

Things settle down, slowly—too slowly—but they always do better in the spring after a rough start, Benni tells himself.

They pick up the first win of the season at Bremen. They beat Dortmund. They lose to Hoffenheim, and Keller gets shown the door. Di Matteo takes over, tells them all to take heart, and by the end of December they're somehow back to within touching distance of the top four.

And then Ralf goes and tears his ACL.

Six to eight weeks, is the prognosis. Ralf jokes that he's picked up Benni's bad luck. Frustrated, but not actually angry about it. Guilt squirms in Benni's gut anyway. 

They lose every friendly during the winter break. 

In mid-January, the Bayern rumors start up again.

A part of Benni wonders if it's his fault for using the bond as a crutch for so long. Another part of him wonders what would have happened if he'd just left when he had a chance.

Not that it matters now. He's still captain, and a captain doesn't cut and run.

He undoes the barriers he'd put up. He opens himself to Schalke again, and the bond roars to life with a viciousness that nearly sends him to his knees. It tears through his veins and starts dragging at that empty place in his chest and it's worse, this time, it's so much worse than he remembers.

He breathes, and lets it happen.

At the return match in Munich, Boateng gets sent off with a straight red. The stadium roars in anger, and a spark of something fizzes through the team. Benni grabs hold of it, keeps it alive. Even when Manu saves the resulting penalty. Even when Alaba puts a goal past Timon—it's disallowed—and Robben nets one off the corner immediately after.

 _Not over yet,_ Benni thinks hard. Timon gets back up. Julian chases Alaba down and wins the corner. Sidney sends it in clean and fast, and Benni knows it's going in as soon as his head connects with the ball. Manu can't even get a hand on it.

They hold Bayern to a draw at home.

After he's thanked the officials, after he's shaken Alonso's hand and accepted a nod from Lahm and watched Manu disappear down the tunnel without saying a word, he lets Atsuto and Julian drag him down the pitch to greet the travelling fans. 

"You really were a striker," Julian laughs. 

And he's not, but Benni knows he'd do it all again in a heartbeat if that's what it takes.

Ralf returns to training the same day Benni feels his ankle twinge in warning. The bond has already taken this much out of him, this soon. He grits his teeth and pushes through. They can't afford another piece of bad luck at this point.

"You don't look so good," Ralf tells him as February turns into March. 

"Worry about yourself," Benni replies. Ralf grunts something that might be agreement.

It's a long winter and a miserable spring. Leon is declared match fit just as Atsuto is ruled out for the rest of the season. Marco goes through a slump. Ralf takes to advising Benni to watch his stress levels or he'll do himself an internal injury. Benni doesn't know how to tell him that's beside the point.

His ankle continues to bother him and he continues pushing through. Through two months without a single win, he holds the team together, pushing them on for one more match, one more point.

They end the season in sixth, just above Dortmund.

The day after the last home match, Benni's ankle completely gives out. Fracture, the doctors tell him. Plus a ruptured articular capsule, and it's a wonder he can even breathe when he's also gone and torn two ligaments where his ribs meet his spine.

"You're an idiot," Ralf says when he comes to visit.

"Thanks for the flowers." Benni makes a show of looking around. "Oh wait, you didn't bring me any."

"Idiots don't get flowers." Ralf pulls up a chair. "How the hell did you even manage to get yourself into this state?"

"Just lucky, I guess." Benni can't keep the smile on his face for more than a couple seconds. "It's not the first time and it won't be the last, Ralf. You know how it is. Occupational hazard."

"More hazardous for you than me." Ralf is giving him a look. "Metze said something to me once."

"What did he say?"

Ralf raises an eyebrow at the snap in Benni's voice. "That you've got some bad juju going on, after what happened with Manu. Me, I don't really believe that kind of superstition. No offense to Metze, obviously, but one failed binding doesn't mean you're actually cursed."

"Thanks," Benni manages after a bit. "Glad you believe in me."

"Yeah. That's the thing." Ralf's eyes never leave Benni's face. "I do believe in you. But I don't believe for a second that you wouldn't lie to my face if you thought it's what I needed to hear."

 

* * *

 

"Happy birthday," Manu said as soon as he arrived at practice. "For real, this time. Also, how come you never told me you weren't actually born on March 1st?"

"I celebrate it on March 1st." Benni didn't add that Ralf and Mesut had figured out he was a leap year baby without needing to be told. "I mean, I still turn a year older when there's no February 29th. The calendar just skips it."

"Right. It skips it because you don't have a birthday that year."

"That's not how it works."

"Why not?" Manu was getting that stubborn look on his face. "Your birthday is your birthday. It doesn't make sense otherwise."

"Just because something doesn't make sense to you doesn't mean it's not true, you know."

Manu frowned. He was thinking about it now, and he wasn't liking the conclusion. Well, Benni decided that was his problem. He liked Manu—he really did—but Manu's stubbornness gave him a headache sometimes.

"Seems kind of unfair," Manu said out of nowhere, two hours later. He tossed Benni a water bottle. "You only get a birthday once every four years."

"Still not how it works," Benni sighed. It took him a second to notice that Manu was smiling to himself. "What?"

"I was just thinking. To make up for the universe stealing all those birthdays from you, you should celebrate it twice a year, on the 28th and the 1st."

Benni flicked the bottle cap at him; Manu caught it easily, laughing. 

"The universe doesn't owe me anything."

"Maybe not." Manu was still smiling. "Doesn't mean you don't deserve it."

And that, right there—that was the moment it started. Benni was sixteen years old, and that was when he knew.

 

* * *

 

A couple weeks after the season ends, Julian drops in on him at home. Benni still has a cast around his ankle. Julian chatters at him about nothing and attempts to fuss over him, despite clearly not knowing the first thing about taking care of someone else. Finally Benni tells him to sit his butt down and turn on the Xbox. Julian goes quiet then, fingers steady on the controller and eyes glued to the TV screen.

"You know how long I've been at Schalke?" Julian asks during a cutscene.

"Since you were eight. Which was, what? Two years ago?"

Julian starts to punch him in the arm for that, but then the game resumes and he goes quiet for another few minutes.

"I've been here fourteen years," Julian says. "My entire life. Same as you."

"Fourteen years is only half my life," Benni reminds him. "Unlike you, I'm old."

"I can't imagine being that ancient." It's a half-hearted joke at best. Julian's looking at the TV when he adds, "Do you think you'll stay at Schalke until you retire?"

Benni doesn't think; he knows. He also knows that isn't what Julian actually wants to ask. There's an insistent something pulling at his heart, stretching and reaching for someone the club has claimed as its own. But even the club can't keep Julian forever.

"I forgive you," Benni says. "Whatever you decide."

Julian laughs nervously. "What's with that all of a sudden?" 

Benni takes the controller from him and presses pause. "Your agent got you an offer, didn't he? Somewhere you can play Champions League every year?" Julian stares at him. Benni can feel his surprise mixed with a small amount of terror—and beneath it, relief. "Jule, you don't need my permission. Wherever you end up going, it should be what's best for you."

"How do you _do_ that?" Julian mutters. "You're like a mind reader. Or—have you been talking to Leon?" There's a note of panic in his voice. Benni feels his eyebrows go up. Julian says, "Because that's not why it failed, you know. He definitely cast it wrong—"

"I haven't been talking to anyone." Though now that he's looking for it, Benni can sense Leon's frustration: a good chunk of it is directed straight at Julian. "I just guessed, from what you were saying."

Julian closes his mouth. "Oh."

"What did you mean," Benni asks carefully, "when you said it failed?"

Julian looks sheepish. "Leon said he could cast a binding spell, and I believed him. I mean, it would have been nice. Between two of us, there wouldn't be a backline in the league that we couldn't get past."

Benni immediately reaches for Leon again through the bond. Frustration, chagrin, more frustration—but no pain.

"I would have stayed," Julian is saying. "If it had actually worked. If it had, we'd probably both be going to Euros, too."

"When did you two try this?"

"Last year?" Julian is startled by the snap in his voice. "I was gonna tell you if it worked. But it didn't. It held for maybe like, a day. And then it just disappeared."

"Just like that."

"Yeah." 

He's not lying. And there's no sign of Leon suffering anything worse than acute embarrassment, and trying to recover from it by convincing himself it was probably, most likely, definitely Julian's fault. 

"That was reckless of you. Both of you. There's a reason bindings are rare, especially these days."

"I know." Julian turns mulish. "But it's not like it can't be done. I mean, you managed it."

"You should have heard the coach yelling when she found out."

"But you managed it," Julian says, like that trumps everything.

Maybe it does. That's not the point. "Promise me you won't try it again."

"You know, it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission—"

"Julian, I am serious—"

"Okay, okay, I promise!" Julian glances at him and glances away. He makes a face. "I can't believe you're pissed at me for _that._ "

"I'm not." Benni says it again when Julian looks skeptical. "I'm not, Jule. And you didn't have to tell me, but I'm glad you did." Pause. "Even if that was mostly an accident because you can't lie at all."

"Uh, like you can talk."

"I'm just saying. If you don't want the whole world finding out about the transfer before Schalke does, maybe consider locking yourself in your room and not talking to anyone—"

Benni catches the throw pillow before it hits him in the face. He laughs at Julian's disgruntled expression, and after a second, Julian grins as well.

"You're serious, aren't you," Julian says. "You're not mad at me, for leaving."

"Of course not." Benni tosses the Xbox controller back to him. "Long as you don't get mad at us for shutting you out twice a year, every year, if you're stupid enough to go to another club in Germany."

Julian just laughs. "No chance," he says, like it's a promise he's planning to keep.

 

* * *

 

"Wolfsburg." Ralf's tone suggests he's describing a particularly unpleasant case of food poisoning. "The brat actually decided he'd rather play for _Wolfsburg_."

Only because the board shut down Juventus' bid. Which he knows Ralf knows; they've all heard the story by now. Ralf straps on his gloves with sharp motions.

Benni asks, "Why are you mad at him? Did he not say goodbye to you or something?"

"He did." Ralf punches a football into the ground, watches it bounce and drop again. "Though he seemed to think I was being unreasonable, just because I wasn't blowing sunshine up his ass the way you did when he told you."

The ball rolls toward him. Benni kicks it back. His ankle still feels weaker than it should be, but it's good enough. The season is starting in three weeks, so it'll have to be good enough.

"He just wanted to hear you say it's fine and he's still welcome to hang out with us. You're being harsh for no reason, Ralf. He's just a kid."

"He's twenty-three. At his age, you were captain."

"At his age, I barely knew what I was doing."

"You're really determined to be zen about this, aren't you?"

"I'm a very zen person in general." 

Ralf snorts. Then he sighs. "God, we really are getting old." He pushes a hand through his hair. "You definitely weren't this zen when Manu left."

"You weren't even here when Manu left," Benni says, as if Manu weren't the whole reason Ralf left the club, as well as the reason he came back. "Besides, we hate Bayern more than we hate Wolfsburg."

Ralf doesn't even dignify that with a response. Benni lets it go.

He can still feel the quiet emptiness that Julian used to occupy, at practice and in his mind. But it's already fading, shifting out of focus like sand shapes under lapping waves. Where Julian was there's now Leon, just like Ralf is here where Manu is not.

A football club has a soul, same as a person. A football club also has a heart, but it doesn't work quite the same way.

In November, he fractures his hand. By Christmas, the bone is still far from mended. _These things do take longer as you get older,_ the doctor says. She's clearly puzzled, but gives him an encouraging smile. _Don't rush it, and it will heal._

In January they fly out to Florida for winter training, and his leg starts acting up again. He ignores it until it fades into the background noise. He ignores it right up until the first friendly against Fort Lauderdale, when he goes for a routine tackle and suddenly pain shoots from his knee to his hip.

Ralf yells for the physio. Remmers and Breitenreiter both come jogging over.

"I might need to—" Benni starts to say. He never finishes the thought, as Remmers touches the back of his knee and his leg nearly buckles. Breitenreiter helps him off the pitch.

That night, the team doctor runs the tests and makes a couple calls. The second opinion matches the first.

"Eight to ten weeks minimum." Dr. Stais gives Benni a look when Benni opens his mouth to argue. "It's a Grade II muscle strain, Mr. Höwedes. This is a recurring issue for you, isn't it? I'd advise you to take the time now, or one of these days, it'll be the one that ends your career."

He accepted that a long time ago, Benni doesn't tell him. He can take as long as he wants; it'll never heal the way it's supposed to. The doctors will be mystified and the physios will be frustrated, and in the end Benni will tell them he feels fine, he's ready, and they'll send him back out because there's no reason he shouldn't be.

So he nods and does as he's told. For the rest of the winter he works hard at PT. He goes to watch practice at every opportunity. He doesn't think he could stay away, even if he wanted to. 

It's the pulse that beats beneath his own: Schalke, always there, still demanding.

One morning Ralf comes over and sits next to him. Doesn't say anything, just sits there. His presence is a roiling calm. They watch Atsuto hesitate, wary after a long injury. They watch Leon fake out Giefer with a pass to Max, who's so surprised to find the ball suddenly at his feet that he nearly misses the tap-in.

"Practically cheating," Ralf says. "Leon says he can sense people halfway across the pitch. It's how he keeps ending up in the right place at the right time."

"Should've been a striker?" Benni suggests. 

"You and him both." Benni starts to laugh, then stops when he notices Ralf isn't. Ralf says, "You're just as sensitive, aren't you? Don't even try to deny it."

"I'm not," Benni replies after a moment. "Is there anything wrong with that?"

Ralf doesn't answer. He leans his elbows on his knees. They watch Leon wince as Max takes a tumble. Benni puts a hand to his own elbow, Max's pain echoing unpleasantly up his arm. He notices Ralf watching him.

"What aren't you telling me?" Ralf asks. 

Benni drops his hand. "Nothing."

Ralf watches him for a couple seconds longer. Benni very carefully doesn't try to push anything at him through the bond; Ralf will definitely notice, this time. He should have been more careful from the start. 

Ralf gets up from the bench. He gives Benni a long look. "I'm going to figure it out, you know. You're a shit liar. And you're not even trying to feed me an excuse for why I shouldn't try to figure it out."

Benni tries to tell him there's nothing to figure out, and Ralf shrugs like he doesn't even hear.

"It might take a while," Ralf says, unchangeable and sure. "But I'm going to figure it out eventually. You can count on that. And when I do, we're going to talk about it."

 

* * *

 

On February 29th, he gets a text at midnight: 

_happy birthday benni, for real._

He doesn't respond and doesn't look at it again. He goes to PT, goes to watch practice. He goes down to the stadium on match days and listens to the Nordkurve sing, his own heartbeat keeping painful time. 

They offer him another contract extension. He signs it.

On March 27th, he pulls up that text message and writes back: 

_Happy birthday, Manu. I hear life goes on even after 30._

 

* * *

 

In Paris, Giroud checks Boateng out of the way and then suddenly he's flying down the pitch with the ball at his feet. Benni is running before his brain catches up with what's happening, as if someone had shouted in his ear before the play even began— _back, back, come back!_ —with a voice that he hasn't heard in years. Then he's sliding on the grass. His shin connects with the ball and sends it away from Giroud, away from the goal. The crowd is roaring in his ears. When he looks up, Manu is looking straight at him.

For a second he almost feels it again: a pulse of pride, gloved hands thumping his back. _Well done._

Minutes later, Griezmann slots the penalty past Manu. With fifteen minutes remaining, France get a second from open play, and that's it. They lose the semifinal 0-2.

"We didn't do too bad," Mats tells him after the match. He sounds tired—they're all tired—but the irrepressible part of Mats is still the same. "Honestly, if I didn't have to play you twice a year, I'd say we should try the binding spell and give everybody a run for their money in 2018."

Benni isn't so tired that he can't laugh at the idea. "Thanks but no thanks. Like you said."

"Or, you know." Mats leans against the doorframe. "You could come to Bayern and make everybody happy."

"Doubt it," Benni says. "Unless you're offering to trade and come play for us?"

Mats snorts. "Yeah, that'll make precisely _no one_ happy."

Benni tilts his head in acknowledgement. He finishes packing up his things while Mats checks his phone. Benni is about to tell him that he doesn't have to wait, when Mats says, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I heard Bayern made you an offer. Did you really turn them down?"

Benni zips up his bag. "Yes."

When he looks up, Mats is watching him. "Why?"

"It wasn't an option," Benni tells him, because it's the truth. Because Mats isn't the only one who's been dreaming of home for years and years. He manages a smile. "Anyway, I thought you'd appreciate having a little less competition. You owe me one, huh?"

Mats laughs at that. He doesn't agree and he doesn't deny. But he does clap Benni on the shoulder before he leaves, squeezes his hand in what might have been thanks, or just understanding.

"See you out there," is all he says.

 

* * *

 

The first time Manu fractured his foot, Benni felt like he'd been punched in the solar plexus. Literally: for a second he couldn't breathe, and when he could again, there was a sharp pain in his own foot that wasn't actually there.

He watched Manu hobble off the pitch, and knew that it was going to be bad.

"Eight to ten weeks," Manu said glumly when Benni came by after his surgery. "October. I'm going to miss the Revierderby, never mind the season opener and Champions League."

"Just get better. We'll take care of Atlético Madrid."

Manu smiled faintly. "You do that." He turned serious again. "What about you, though? Ralf said he caught you limping yesterday."

"Ralf is making things up—"

"Ralf is a complete stick in the mud. So if he's worried you're hiding something, I'm worried, too. You're not, are you?"

"I'm not." But Ralf wasn't lying, either. Benni admitted, "I felt it happen. When you broke your foot, I felt it. Like it was happening to me."

It didn't make any sense, but he didn't know how else to explain it. The binding spell was getting stronger by the day. He wondered if Manu knew, or guessed. 

Manu just looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, 

"I'm sorry. That must have hurt. I didn't know— Why are you laughing?"

Benni sat down, shaking his head. "Can't believe you're worried about _me_ right now. You're the one who's hurt."

"We both are, apparently." A thought occurred to Manu. "You're not going to be hurting until I'm better, are you? Because that's going to be inconvenient—"

"I'm fine, honest." He tried to think of a good way to put it. "I just know that you're hurt, so I get an echo of it. You know how when you listen to somebody chewing on ice cubes, and your own teeth start hurting?" He saw Manu grimace at the mental image. "It's like that."

And it wasn't exactly like that, but Manu accepted it.

The season started, and Schober took over in goal with Ralf on standby. They lost both legs of the Champions League qualifier, and watching Ralf get into another frosty standoff with Schober on the flight back to Gelsenkirchen, Benni thought October was too far away. 

_Heal faster,_ he thought at Manu and the phantom pain in his own bones. _We need you back, so hurry up and get better._

In the end, Manu recovered halfway through September. He came back almost at the same time as Benni, who'd just lost a week to an ankle injury. It didn't occur to him to wonder at the time. Manu grinned at him as they walked down to the pitch together, and Benni let out a breath he'd been holding for what felt like months.

 

* * *

 

Ralf does figure it out in the end.

It takes him nearly a year, but Ralf figures it out—and when he does, the blast of pure anger is so strong it may as well have been a bullhorn blaring right into his ear. Benni knows he's not getting out of this one.

"That binding didn't just fail, did it?" Ralf's voice is steady.

"No," Benni says. "It didn't."

"And you were the one who cast it." Not even close to being a question.

"I was."

"And when he left," Ralf says, rage building like a tremor beneath the earth, "he couldn't absolve it. And you wouldn't let him go. So he got someone from Bayern to do it."

"You know you can't absolve someone else's bond."

"I know you can damn well _break one_. Enough to transfer the bond to something else, and you—damn it all to hell, Benni, what were you thinking!" Ralf grabs him by the shoulder when he tries to turn away. "Did you really think that was gonna keep him from fucking off to Munich? You knew damn well he wasn't going to stay—"

"I didn't try to make him stay," Benni snaps. "I knew he was leaving before the club did, and I would have gladly absolved it myself but Bayern told him to break the bond—"

"They _what?_ "

"—or else the whole transfer was off, so he did what he had to do and honestly, Ralf, it's none of your goddamn business!"

"Like hell it isn't when you've been burning yourself out! No, you listen to me here." A pulse of cold rage sticks the retort in Benni's throat. Ralf says, "I don't care what Neuer thought he was doing or how they forced him into it. That was some bare-knuckled feudal bullshit they pulled, and the fact that you're _still defending him_ —" Ralf bites back what sounds like the beginning of a long string of curses. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"What good would it have done?"

"Nothing gets done if nobody knows!"

"Raúl knew," Benni says. 

Ralf stares at him. "Raúl," he echoes. "You're telling me _Raúl fucking González_ knew you were bonded to the goddamn club, and he didn't think that was maybe something we should know?"

"He assumed everyone already knew." And that's news to Ralf, he can tell. It'd been news to Benni, too, when he found out. "Apparently it's still standard practice in some parts of Spain. He didn't approve of it, but he thought it was just something Schalke also did."

"Well, somebody should have told him it's not." Ralf's disbelief is fading quickly under his anger. "Dammit, Benni, this has to stop. Now."

"I can't. You can't absolve a binding you didn't cast, and I didn't cast this one."

"You don't have to absolve it. You just have to break it." Ralf pushes a hand through his hair, completely messing up the spikes. He sucks on his teeth, spits out a sharp exhale. "You have to leave."

The look on his face is almost comically grim but his eyes are serious. And isn't that just like Ralf, he thinks.

Benni swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm not going anywhere, Ralf."

"You're burning yourself out." The way Ralf says it is almost gentle. Determined, the way he is when he's guarding all their backs. "You can't keep going like this, and you know it."

He knows, and it doesn't make a difference. Benni feels himself smiling. "Maybe not," he says. "But I'm captain, so I have to."

 

* * *

 

Because a football club has a heart, same as a person.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. 

He's known Ralf since they were in school, and between them, Ralf has always been the more practical one.

So he should have seen it coming, the first week of August, when he's summoned in to talk to the directors and the new coach. 

Domenico Tedesco is a rising star among a new generation of coaches. So new that he's barely three years older than Benni is. Tedesco seems slightly uncomfortable when he walks into the meeting, but when Heidel motions for the young coach to speak, his voice is determined enough.

"The directors are looking for a tactical change, you see," Tedesco says. Not just a change, but a new tactical identity for the future. It is important to plan this way. It is important to understand that the team has been struggling with this problem for years now.

Benni understands. He'd been there, after all, for all of it.

Which, of course. Tedesco clears his throat. He smoothes down his hair and remarks that Leon has been showing great leadership, and Ralf has always been there, you see. Reliable. The new future must be reliable. And, of course, Benni is still valued by the team and will always be the heart of the club. But he must understand.

"Things start and things end," Heidel adds. "I know you, like all of us, only want what's best for Schalke."

And Benni does. Benni understands. He disagrees with the assessment of _reliable_ —and a not insignificant part of him is screaming at this too little, too late—but he understands.

Ralf had warned him after all.

He shakes Ralf's hand after—formality, ritual—and feels it when it happens like water poured over still-hot coals. He sucks in a breath; Ralf exhales a hiss that might have been a curse. The bond flares with a roar like thousands of voices—Ralf's hand tightens on his—and then, just like that, it's gone.

For the first time in eleven years, he hears nothing but the sound of his own heart.

When Benni looks up, Ralf is giving him a crooked grin.

"Take good care of our team," Benni tells him. "Captain."

 

* * *

 

A football club has a soul. A football club has a heart, same as a person. But unlike a person, the heart of a club is resilient and doesn't break.

Turin is—different. Warm in September and dry from January to spring. The city is old with history that makes itself known at every turn, and every turn is unfamiliar. The people are friendly, but it isn't home.

 _Welcome to Juventus ;-),_ reads the text from an unknown number. _This is Sami Khedira btw. I can show you around when you're up to it._

Sami is still the same as ever. Benni takes him up on his offer, and Sami spends half the morning regaling him with what sounds like stories he picked up on one of those city tours lead by university students looking to make some extra change.

"Can you believe it's been three years since we won the World Cup?" Sami sips his espresso and makes a pleased sound. "I'm looking forward to defending our title."

Benni remarks that it's unseemly for old men to get ahead of themselves. Sami just laughs. 

"You heard from Manu lately?" Sami asks. 

Manu hasn't called, though he must have heard the news. But then, Benni also hadn't called when Manu got injured in March. He supposes they've both had other things on their minds.

"He'll be ready before Russia," Benni says, and Sami nods like that's all he needed to hear.

It occurs to Benni that he's known Sami nearly ten years, and they don't really know each other at all. But Turin is different. Benni wonders if a city can change a person, given time. He's never had to think about it before.

He breathes easier, away from Gelsenkirchen, but the old injuries are still there. A muscle strain picked up in training rules him out until November. Three days after he finally makes his Serie A debut, he tears a different muscle. The doctors tell him he'll be lucky to get back on the pitch before the winter break.

From September through the end of February, he plays exactly one match.

World Cup qualifiers go by. Friendlies are held in Germany and overseas. He reads about it in the newspapers, and Sami tells him about the latest thing Thomas did to annoy someone when he returns from national team duty in Stuttgart, Düsseldorf, Cologne.

"Marc and Bernd are doing really well," Sami says. "Manu better watch his back." 

Sometimes it's hard to tell if Sami is trying to be helpful, or if he just doesn't notice. The last time Benni played wearing a Germany shirt was nearly a year ago, in Azerbaijan. In a way, it's almost fitting.

On March 1st, a text wakes him up at midnight: 

_happy birthday_

It's not a leap year. Benni picks up the phone and presses call. 

"I can confirm," Manu says instead of hello, "that life does indeed go on after thirty."

And there's no reason at all, really, for the way his chest still squeezes tight.

"I guess you'd know," Benni says. "Or maybe that's just what you tell yourself to get through the day."

It gets him a laugh. Something like happiness, but not actually there. Benni listens and listens to the way it fades. 

Manu asks, "How's Juventus?"

Benni tells him about the city and Sami's dumb local facts. A blizzard hit Turin three days earlier. Sami joked that Benni brought the snow with him from Germany. Manu laughs even though it's a pretty lame joke.

"How's your foot?" Benni asks, and the line goes quiet. 

It stays quiet for so long, without even a hum of static, that Benni checks to make sure the call hasn't dropped. 

"Manu?"

"Yeah, I'm still here. I've just been thinking."

"Okay," Benni says and waits for him to finish the thought. 

Manu says, "I've been thinking. If I don't make it back in time for Russia this summer—"

"You'll never be ready if you keep thinking like that."

"I never think like this, and you know it." Because even now, that part of Manu is the same. His voice softens, "But if I don't. I was just thinking. It'll probably have been our last international tournament."

 _That was two years ago,_ Benni thinks. "Yeah, I know."

He hears Manu breathe out. "Where are you thinking of going, after Juventus?"

"Why?" he asks. "You thinking of coming with me?"

The line goes quiet again.

"No," Manu says, because that's the obvious answer. Then he adds, "But maybe in a couple years."

Benni shuts his eyes. He's thirty years old and in a month Manu will be thirty-two. He's here in Turin and Manu is six hundred kilometers away in Munich. Funny, how people can move and change and that distance always stays the same.

And still, Manu is asking.

"Benni," Manu says. Hesitates, like there's something else and he doesn't know the words.

"Don't," Benni says. "If we play together again, then we play together again." He talks over the noise of protest Manu makes at the word _if_. "And if we don't, then we don't."

Because that's how it goes, even if it's not what Manu wants. They both should know better by now.

Heartache is a quiet sound; if Benni listens, he can almost hear it in the way Manu says,

"Okay."

And,

"Well. Good luck, then. With everything."

 

* * *

 

"I'll cast," Benni said. He'd just turned eighteen and Manu was nineteen, and neither of them really knew what they were doing, but they were determined. Determination was all that mattered. "I've got a stronger sense, so it'll be more likely to work."

Manu nodded and held out his hands. "Okay."

This was crazy, a part of Benni thought as he took Manu's hands. The rest of him was too busy being giddy over the idea. Him and Manu, defender and keeper, perfectly in tune and perfectly together for as long as they both have. They're going to have a long time, he thought fiercely. No way they won't. They're going to be unbeatable, like legends, remembered as one of the great partnerships in club history and Manu will surpass even Jens Lehmann and win the Ballon d'Or.

He breathed, and Manu breathed out. Manu pulled at his hands until they were all but sharing the same breath of air. His forehead against Manu's, close enough to feel eyelashes on his cheek, smell the citrus tang from the orange Manu had at breakfast. Over all that, leather and grass and sheer determination: Manu. Benni smiled to himself.

He waited, listening with ears and senses, until he felt their heartbeats sync.

"This I promise." With his hands, he laced their fingers together. "I am with you, as you are with me." With his senses, he reached and found Manu already there. "Back to back, arm in arm, for as long as we both hold true."

Manu sucked in a breath as something in them _shifted_ , and when the world realigned, Benni _knew_ that Manu was going to speak even before he opened his mouth, 

"And I promise the same to you."

Benni leaned back far enough to see Manu's face. "That's not part of the spell."

"I know." Manu shrugged. "But I felt like I should say something. Didn't seem fair."

Benni laughed, and the laughter bubbling up in Manu's chest made him shake twice over.

"It worked, didn't it? The spell actually worked."

"Told you." Benni couldn't seem to stop smiling. "Told you it would."

"Yeah." He felt Manu's grin like a physical blow, palpable warmth dead center in his chest. "Yeah. You know what this means, right?"

"We're going to win the league," Benni said, and Manu's grin widened. "And the Pokal. Maybe the World Cup in a couple years, if we get called up together—"

"When, not if." There was no uncertainty in his voice. Manu's grip tightened on his hands; Benni's breath hitched in his lungs. Manu breathed in for him, a hard _thud_ in both their hearts. "We're going to, Benni. We're going to win _everything_."  
 

**Author's Note:**

> comments/feedback = ♥


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